


Infinite Arms

by Janieshi



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Guns, Shooting Guns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-15 08:03:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10552888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janieshi/pseuds/Janieshi
Summary: "I won't be around forever, child. You will have to fend for yourself when I am gone." After the events in Espionage, what becomes of young Riza Hawkeye? And where does the affinity for guns come from, anyway? Or; An exploration of my favorite Lieutenant's relationship with her weapons.





	1. Mother and Father

For the first time in her life, Riza Hawkeye was sorry to see one of her father’s students go. 

Normally, she relished the moment. It meant that she was free again; that she could roam her own hallways at any hour of the day or night, openly, without worrying about unwanted flirtation or being bullied. She could sit and read for hours in the same place without fear of being found out or interrupted. She could relax. She could breathe.

But _he_ had been different.  He’d been the only ‘apprentice’ who’d even bothered learning her first name. He’d been the only one to look at her and really _see_ her. He’d been the only one who treated her as an equal rather than a servant, as a person rather than a tool, as a friend rather than a means to an end.

In fact, Roy Mustang had been her first real friend.

Small wonder, then, that the silence of the old house was more oppressive than peaceful once he’d gone. Even her father was quieter than usual. Riza knew that he felt it too—the loneliness and regret seeping into their bones right along with the chill of the cold spring rains.

So it didn’t startle her as much as it might have when Berthold reached out and gently took hold of her wrist one morning (though she _did_ spill the cup of tea she’d been carrying to him). For a moment, he just stared at her, his light blue eyes flicking rapidly over her face, her slender frame, and her earnest brown eyes, while the puddle of tea seeped slowly through the papers on his desk. And then he frowned.

His daughter, he realized, was becoming a beautiful young woman.

“Go upstairs and change into some old clothes, child,” he told her. “I’ll wait for you behind the house, at the edge of the wheat field.”

“Yes, papa,” she replied demurely.

It didn’t occur to her to question his order, much less refuse. Although she wondered what she’d done; why the mere sight of her upset him so.

Five minutes later, she wove her way through her beloved garden to join her father.  He stood with his back to her, motionless in the dappled shade of the trees that bordered his once-extensive fields. Most of them had been sold off, now. 

“I won’t be around forever, child,” he said as she approached, without even turning his head. “You will have to fend for yourself when I am gone. Protect yourself and your home from any external threats.” 

“I understand,” she said softly, even as her heart gave a painful throb in her breast.

“Do you?” He turned his piercing gaze on her at last, revealing an unexpected whirlpool of anxiety and fear in his deep-set eyes, so like and yet unlike her own.

Riza didn’t know how to respond, so she held her tongue, a slight frown of confusion on her gentle face. After a moment, her father sighed.

“Never mind, child. You are going to learn how to defend yourself. I will teach you.” He bent down to retrieve a box resting near his feet. Riza was astonished by the array of handguns and ammunition inside.

“Are you saying…” the words died in her throat as her father calmly selected one of the guns.

“We’ll start with something simple. This is a .38 revolver,” he stated, placing the unloaded gun in her hands as he spoke. “This part is called the chamber. It holds six rounds.” Without further preamble, he launched into a detailed explanation of the mechanics of the weapon.

Berthold showed his daughter how to load the rounds, how to expel the empty brass shells once they had all been fired, how to cock and pull the trigger, and how to release the cocked trigger without firing. He explained what was meant by single action and double action, and how her accuracy and aim would be impacted by each. He even smiled faintly when she fumbled the chamber open for the first time by herself, nervous but determined to imitate what he’d just shown her. He gently corrected her grip and moved her fingers into the correct places. Patient with her inexperience in a way he had never been before.  

Once she’d loaded the gun herself and closed the chamber (with hands that only trembled _a_ _little_ ), he directed her attention to the targets he’d set up on bales of hay nearby.  He stood just behind her, corrected her posture and her stance, and showed her how to aim. And then he told her to fire.

_**Bang.....Bang....Bang...Bang..Bang.Bang.** _

She emptied the chamber into the black and white target pinned to the hay bale, and dutifully cleared the empty shells just as he’d just shown her. The pungent scent of gunpowder lingered in the air for just a moment.

As the adrenaline surged through her veins, Riza grinned and let out a shaky little laugh.

“Let’s see how you’ve done,” her father said. She started to follow him to the target, but froze at his sharp inhalation of breath. Oh god, was she terrible? Had she missed every shot? Would he let her try again? Give her just one more chance?

It was so strange.  She’d never dreamed of picking up a weapon in her life, but suddenly she was petrified that he’d take it away from her.

Just as she opened her mouth to plead for another try, her father turned back to her, and the proud expression on his face stopped her heart.  He’d never _once_ looked at her like that before.

“Look at that. You’re a natural, my girl.” He showed her six little holes in the paper, all neatly clustered in the center circle of the target. “All right. Again.”

They kept at the lesson until sunset.  Berthold had four other guns besides the .38 they’d started with, and Riza showed the same innate proficiency for all of them.  She hit every target, with fairly consistent accuracy, even when he moved her 20 feet further away from the targets. As they walked back to the house in the slowly fading light, she felt his eyes on her face again. 

“Your mother would be proud,” he said, so quietly that she thought for a moment she’d imagined it.

“My mother?” Riza repeated stupidly. They never talked about her mother.

“Yes. In fact, I think she would have wanted you to have these,” he answered, with a small gesture to the box in his arms. “They were hers, you know.” Riza was struck speechless once again.

“I—they— _what_?” Berthold bestowed one of his exceedingly rare smiles on his bewildered daughter.

“She was the one who taught _me_ how to handle a gun, many years ago. As her father taught her when she was just a girl. Your mother was an excellent markswoman, and you appear to take after her in that respect. She would be proud of you.”

“Oh,” she managed. The dull ache of her old loss mingled with an odd, new, fierce joy bubbling in her chest.  She stayed silent for another moment, and then she blurted out: “Thank you.  For showing me.  For teaching me.”

“It brings me comfort,” he said quietly. “Knowing that you are capable of looking after yourself. Of defending yourself. Knowing that, should anyone try anything once I am gone, they would not find you so easy a target as they might imagine.”

“Yes, papa,” she said, even as a shiver ran down her spine. She wished she had more confidence in her ability to fend off potential intruders.

It occurred to her that her father had talked with her more in this one afternoon than he normally did in a month. And she wasn’t sure what to do with that knowledge.

He stopped abruptly, so she did too. She looked up at him. Without a word, Berthold reached out one hand and laid it on her cheek. Riza froze in shock at the unprecedented caress.  Her father studied her face again, with the same intense, fiery stare.

“One day you will surprise even yourself, child,” he said at length. “You are a survivor. You will endure, my lion-hearted girl.”

And with that, Berthold disappeared into the house, leaving Riza standing stunned in the garden.


	2. Ready for the Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Riza does, in fact, surprise even herself.

Little more than two years later, Riza remembers her father’s prediction.

She stands over his grave with tears on her face and heaviness in her heart. Roy has come and gone again, and this time her secrets (and her father’s) have gone with him. They are not likely to meet again.

There is nothing for her here, now, but an empty house where ghosts roam the halls and memories whisper in the dark. Her father is dead, her best friend (and first love) has gone away, probably for good this time…and she’s never felt less lion-hearted in her life.

No, right now, Riza feels small. Empty, alone, and frightened. Like an animal frozen by the headlights of an oncoming car, completely at the mercy of circumstances outside of her control. Her heart is the tiny fluttering heart of a petrified rabbit and not that of a lion at all.

And this knowledge shames her.

She had found solace, lately, in her target practice. Perhaps because it’s something that makes her feel connected to her mother. Each time she pulls the trigger, she thinks of her father’s words on that one spring day: how her mother would be proud of her marksmanship. With every spent shell that falls to her feet, she imagines a proud smile on the soft features of the woman in the faded photographs that she’s jealously guarded all these years.

Deep down, Riza knows that it soothes her because it’s the one thing in her life that she can control. She couldn’t stop her mother from falling ill, she couldn’t change Roy’s mind about joining the army, and she couldn’t prevent her father from sinking deeper and deeper into his obsession with flame alchemy. So maybe she can’t stop people from leaving her behind…but she is always completely in control of her weapons.  _She_ pulls the trigger, _she_ aims the barrel, and _she_ puts those neat little holes into her targets.

But for some reason, it hasn’t helped today. She’s still alone, still uncertain, and still empty. She’s still been used and left behind by the two men she loves the most. Sacrificed and abandoned.

And God, how she misses them both.

Lion heart.  Why had her father called her a lion heart? And how is she supposed to be brave when she all she can think about is how _frightened_ she is?

She’s still pondering lions and rabbits later that night as she cleans and services her weapons.  So focused are her thoughts, at first she doesn’t hear the quiet rattling of the doorknob.  She does, however, notice the sound of metal grating in the lock. She’s on her feet with the old revolver in hand before the intruder finishes picking the cheap lock. When the door swings open on rusty hinges, she’s waiting with her gun at the ready.

“I suggest you turn right back around, unless you’d like a hole in your head,” she states, cool and calm.

“Agh!  Oh my god, I thought…Miss Hawkeye?  Is that you?” Startled to hear a vaguely familiar voice, Riza lowers her weapon. “It’s me, William Collins!” the intruder says, holding his hands up obligingly.

“Mr. Collins?” she repeats, instantly even more suspicious. A former student of her father’s, she remembers.

He’d been one of what she liked to call the ‘charming’ types. Though she held the key to her father’s alchemic secrets _now_ , she hadn’t always. She’d never even learned the basics of alchemy. The ‘charmers’ didn’t know this, of course, and they’d assumed that a little flirting with the teacher’s daughter would grant them quicker access to the secrets Berthold withheld from them. They seemed to think any girl would fall at their feet and betray her own flesh and blood for the sake of a rakish smile and wink.

“Hey, hi there,” Collins begins. “I, uh, I just thought…I mean, the house looked empty, and since I’d come all this way, I just thought I’d stop in…” he stammers, obviously trying to come up with a cover story.

“You broke into my home in the middle of the night because you just happened to be in the area?” she says, incredulous. Nice to know some things haven’t changed—Collins is still an idiot.

“Well, when you say it like that, it makes me sound like a sneak thief,” he says, winking at her.  She resists the urge to roll her eyes, but only because she doesn’t dare take them off this creep for even a second. 

“Yes, because clearly someone who’s just picked the lock on a house that belongs to their recently deceased former teacher has only honorable intentions,” she says dryly. “Why are you here, Mr. Collins?”

“Please, call me Will, Miss Hawkeye. There’s no need to stand on ceremony with me.  We’re old friends!”

Oh, that’s rich, Riza thinks, considering that he doesn’t even know _her_ first name. She wonders if he’s even aware of how stupid he sounds.

“No, we’re really not,” she says firmly. “Now please leave.”

“You wouldn’t throw a man out on a night like this, would you?  It’s freezing out there! Have a heart, Miss Hawkeye. I came all this way to, um, pay my respects!” he exclaims, in a sudden burst of inspiration. “Yeah, I came to pay my respects to my old sensei, and thought maybe I could just stay the night. You know, since hotels are so expensive, and I did come all the way out here…” and he grins at her in a way she supposes is meant to be seductive.

Suddenly, Riza understands why her father had stared so hard at her before teaching her to handle a gun. He’d _anticipated_ this.

“You heard my father died and you assumed he’d left his research notes just lying around, so you broke in to look for them,” she states, unmoved. This idiot Collins had probably forgotten Riza even _existed_ , if he’d assumed that the house would be empty. Otherwise he’d have knocked instead of picking the lock.

“What, no, no! I’d never do that!” he says quickly. He’s a terrible liar. Losing patience, she raises her weapon again.

“Mr. Collins, you are not welcome here. Please leave now. Don’t make me ask again.”  He laughs heartily at that, finally dropping the innocent act.

“And why should I? I haven’t got what I came here for, you know.” He takes a step closer to her, his cheerful features hardening into a threatening mask.

“There is nothing here for you,” she says, trying to sound confident. “Walk away now, and I won’t shoot you.”

“Please, a sweet little thing like you is going to shoot me? You’re bluffing. I bet that thing isn’t even loaded,” he scoffs.

“Keep standing there; you’ll soon find out.”

“You don’t have the guts,” he sneers.

And that’s the last straw.

 _I don’t have the guts?_  she thinks, white-hot rage bubbling to the surface. _And just how the hell would you even know that? You know NOTHING about me, you self-centered moron!_  The lioness within her roars.

Riza takes quick and careful aim, and fires. Collins screams as the bullet tears through the strap of the satchel he’d had dangling from his shoulder. It falls to the ground, and the contents spill out onto his feet as he gibbers in terror.

“That was your final warning. Get. Out. Of. My. _House_ ,” she snarls, through clenched teeth.

She should probably thank him, she thinks with amusement as he scrambles to collect his things and trips over his own feet. If Collins hadn’t challenged her like this, she might never have realized that she possessed the lion heart her father had seen in her all those years ago.

“Feel free to pass the information along, Mr. Collins,” she says lightly as he lurches for the door with a white face. “My father already chose his successor. There is nothing here for the rest of you. Do I make myself clear?”

She’s not sure whether he even hears her, as he scrambles across the hardwood floor to reach for the door, but it doesn’t really matter. They'll learn soon enough not to mess with Riza Hawkeye. She’s not quite the easy target she seems.

And she’s not afraid anymore.


	3. What a Dream I Had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grumman meets his granddaughter face to face for the first time and realizes that she has hidden potential.

Since the little incident involving Mr. Collins, two more of Berthold Hawkeye’s former students have dared to knock at Riza’s door, only to be ordered politely but firmly away. She’d taken to keeping her father’s shotgun in the umbrella stand at the front door, just in case added incentive was ever required, but she hadn't found the need to use it, yet. (Which was _almost_ disappointing.)

Confident in her ability to protect her own person, at least, Riza had been growing increasingly concerned about the contents of her father’s library.

There were some very rare and valuable books there, she knew, and lately she’d been thinking of selling them off. Surely one of the merchants in town would be able to put her in touch with someone who dealt in old books. There wasn’t really any rush, so she could afford to wait until she was certain of getting a fair price.

But the books she was _really_ worried about were the less obviously valuable ones. The ones that looked shabby on the outside, but held clues to secrets within their depths, for the odd few people who might know where to look. She didn’t, of course. But just before his death, her father had implied as much – _these_ were the ones she needed to protect.

Staring out at the rain, Riza sighed in frustration. Of course she hadn’t grabbed an umbrella, or a coat, when she’d left the house. She’d only run across to the barn for a moment, and hadn’t even noticed the dark clouds overhead.

The most important of father’s books, wrapped in oiled silk, were now carefully hidden at the bottom of an old trunk that had once been her mother’s. She felt certain that no one would think to look in the upper story of the old barn, which she and her father had used as an attic for several years. And even if they did, who would think to unravel the layers of organdy and crinoline in a trunk full of outdated women’s clothing?

Riza settled down to wait on the top of the old chest, beside the window facing the back of the house. A rifle rested against her leg, the metal cold and reassuring against her bare skin.

A movement from outside caught her eye. Her heart stuttered in her chest when she realized that it was a person. Someone was walking around the back of her house. Carefully, she leaned closer to the window to get a better view.

It was an older man, with a distinctly military bearing, though he wore civilian clothes. He stood on her back porch, smoking what looked like a cigar, breathing out great wreaths of smoke into the cold rain. As she watched, he turned from his perusal of the kitchen windows to face the garden.

What was he looking for? 

Riza peered through the sight on the rifle, her movements slow and careful to keep from alerting the man to the fact that he’s being observed. She watched him examine her garden—the flowers, the vegetables, and the comparative wilderness that surrounded the carefully tended plots. Biting her lip, she wished she could see the man's face more clearly—the rifle’s sight helped, but not enough.

The man carried an umbrella, which he unfurled as he stepped out onto the muddy garden path. He moved slowly in her direction, and she gently brushed the trigger with one finger as a reminder to herself –she’s well prepared for anything he might try. 

The stranger stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted the bales of hay with her makeshift targets still pinned to them. Embarrassed that she hadn’t cleaned them up, Riza wondered whether it was vanity if she liked to look at the neat holes in the shadowy silhouettes. It made her happy, to have one thing that she knew she was good at. The one thing her father had actually praised her for, once.

But her unexpected visitor was obviously surprised to see them, and his little black umbrella moved closer so he could run his long pale fingers slowly over the bullet holes. After a few moments, he looked up again and turned in a slow circle, as though hoping the owner of such targets would appear if he willed it hard enough.

And what would he say if she did appear? What would he do? Riza had no idea what this strange man was hoping to find here, but he had obviously come with a purpose. The rain was beginning to let up....maybe she needed to go and find out for herself what his purpose here was.

Many years later, he’d tell her about the effect she’d had on him when she materialized silently out of the mist that day.

She had no way to know that she looked like some kind of pagan forest goddess, gliding on silent bare feet through the wet grass, her blonde hair damp and tousled around her pale face, white dress fluttering around her legs. Or perhaps vengeful earthbound spirit was more accurate, with those eyes that burned and a weapon in her hands. Either way, she so closely resembled her dead mother that it physically hurt to look at her.

As it was, Riza could see that she’d startled him by the way the blood drained from his thin face. Before he’d recovered self-possession enough to voice a greeting, she spoke and broke the spell.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she said softly.

“Good afternoon,” he answered. “And is it Miss Hawkeye with whom I have the pleasure of conversing?” Something in his eyes told her he already knew the answer. And suddenly she recognized his face.

“Yes, that's right,” she replied. “What can I do for you?” _Grandfather_ , she added mentally.

“I’m...my name is Grumman,” he said after a barely noticeable pause. She waited, wondering whether he’d tell her what she already knew, and resisting the urge to gloat that she’d guessed it before he’d told her. “I…I knew your parents,” he was saying, somewhat awkwardly.  “And I’m truly sorry for your recent loss, young lady.”

“Thank you,” Riza replied, studying his face. He seemed uncertain, uncomfortable. Although her immediate impulse was to pity him, she quickly decided that she wouldn't help him out of his difficulty.

After all, where had he been when her mother was ill? When her father was slowly spiraling down into his obsession? Clearly, there’d been bad blood between them, the details of which she’d never learned. Her father had never once mentioned this man when he was still alive, although she’d long since known of his existence from her mother’s papers.

So, what was he doing here now?

“I came intending to make you a proposition,” he admitted, as if in answer to her unspoken question. “But now that I’ve met you, I wonder whether it would the right choice for you after all.”

Curiosity piqued in spite of herself, Riza loosened her grip on the shotgun that she still held at her side. Well, perhaps he’d just come to check up on her? To be sure she was still alive and not actually suffering or in need? Would he want her to come with him when he left? Would she _want_ to go with him when he left? Riza didn't know. She didn’t need him to _save_ her, though, she was sure of that much at least. She was perfectly capable of looking after herself. Had been doing it for years now. But…it wouldn’t hurt to hear him out and find out exactly what he wanted.

“Would you like to come inside?” she offered.

“Ah, yes, thank you,” he replied.

Riza moved past him to unlock the kitchen door, and led him silently into the library. As she offered him father’s chair, the one closest to the fire, she watched his face carefully.

There.

Just the slightest flicker of something. Shame? Regret? She couldn’t be sure, but there was definitely something.

“You have many friends in town, my child. Neither the postmistress nor the doctor wanted to tell me how to find you, out here,” he began. “They seemed to think I had nefarious intentions.”

Still wary, Riza settled herself into the leather chair opposite his.

“I hope you’ll excuse my bluntness, General Grumman, but what _are_ your intentions?” At that, he started.

“I didn't tell you that I was a general, did I, Miss Hawkeye?” he asked.

“You didn't, no.  But I'm not wrong,” she replied, tilting her head to one side. “And I don't particularly like playing games, sir. You came because there’s something you wanted from me. I hope you don’t mind my asking you so plainly. But what might it be?”

He sat back in his chair, torn between amusement and annoyance.

“Ah, you take after your mother,” he sighed. The admission made Riza’s heart skip a beat, and she had to remind herself not to let sentiment cloud her judgment.

“Yes, so I’ve been told,” she answered softly. And his facial expression changed again...Regret, then. Whatever had happened between him and his only child, all those years ago, he regretted it.

And apparently, he hadn’t yet realized that his granddaughter had already figured out exactly _who_ he was.

“Please forgive me, Miss Hawkeye,” he said in a more brisk, businesslike tone. “I came here today with the intention of offering you a place to go, if you didn’t want to stay out here on your own. But I couldn’t help but notice something, just now, and I find myself questioning whether you might prefer to put your skills to a different use.”

“I don’t understand, sir,” she said, brow furrowed. “What skills do you mean?”

“You seem to be very comfortable around weapons, my dear. Those targets, outside…those are yours, are they not?”

“They are, yes,” she replied, still confused.

“Then you have an excellent eye. With a little training, you’d make a formidable sharpshooter for your nation’s armed services. Although you’ve only just turned seventeen, we could make arrangements to get you into the military academy a trifle early, should you so desire.”

She blinked at him. This, she had not been expecting. “You think I should join the army?” she asked, her tone incredulous.

“It’s just an idea, my dear, and of course it’s entirely your choice,” he replied, folding his hands neatly over one knee. “You might not be aware of this, but you come from a long line of military men, on your mother’s side. And as a high-ranking official, I am uniquely placed to offer you my assistance, if you were to choose to follow in that career path.”

The surprise was still fresh, and quite strong, but...Riza took a deep breath and thought about what he was really offering her.

He was giving her the chance to make her own way in the world. He’d be able to help her with the paperwork and getting accepted into the academy early and such, but after that it would be entirely up to her how well she did, and how far she went in the army. And...actually, it really wasn’t such a horrible idea.

Riza thought back over all the things Roy had said to her before he left, about wanting to live his life in service of others. About using his gifts for the greater good. And she remembered the way this not-quite-a-stranger sitting across from her had been examining her targets. He’d seemed genuinely interested, and he hadn’t known that she’d been watching him, she was certain, so this couldn’t be all an act on his part.

Maybe she really did have a practical skill that she could put to good use. To serve and protect those who could not protect themselves. Surely there were others like her, women or children who lived alone in small border towns, who didn't have the means or skills to defend themselves should intruders come. Who relied on their military troops to protect them.

The idea made her head swim—she could actually do this.

“Tell me, General Grumman,” she said at last, leaning forward. “What would I need to do to enroll in the Military Academy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time-wise, this chapter takes place just before the final scene in Espionage.


	4. Best of Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Rebecca Catalina: whirlwind, polar-opposite and best-friend-to-be.

Riza Hawkeye, newly minted cadet, discovered exactly how valuable her marksmanship skills really were the first time her class visited the gun range. 

The sleek military-issue sniper rifle felt at once comfortable and unfamiliar in her grip. Waiting impatiently for her turn at the targets, Cadet Hawkeye ran her fingers along the barrel and listened with half an ear as the instructor called out directions that she didn’t really need.

Although she was nervous when she took her turn, her aim was as true as always. And when the smoke cleared, she turned to the instructor, expecting a professional’s critique of her proficiency. But the expression on his face made the whole class go quiet, which made Riza’s heart race.

She knew that she’d done better than the students who’d gone before her, of course, but she hadn’t quite grasped just how _much_ better. How could she? She had no idea what she’d looked like just a moment before: steely-eyed, stance and grip impeccable, breathing steady and face calm. Her aim, too, was flawless, and in fact she’d done a better job hitting the targets than the instructor had.

The other cadets noticed this detail at about the same time as she did. One of them let out a low whistle. (And it turned out to be the pretty, curvy girl with the heart-shaped face and glossy black hair that Riza secretly envied, and wasn’t _that_ something?) The instructor turned to face her while the other cadets shuffled their feet awkwardly behind him. 

“You think you can do that again, kiddo?” he asked, ignoring the murmurs and stares of the others. Riza nodded, suddenly feeling very exposed. He turned back to bark at the rest of the class. “Listen up, boys and girls. Watch Hawkeye, here, and memorize her every fucking move, I want you all shooting like her by the time we’re through here. Clear?”

A chorus of _yes, sirs_ rose around her, and Hawkeye faced the target again with something like anticipation fluttering in her stomach. She took another moment to clear her head, blocking out the whispers of noise from her audience. She breathed deep, took aim, and squeezed the trigger again and again.

The instructor put her through her paces: (“Try it kneeling on one knee, braced like this. Very good. Okay, now lie on your stomach, just here, and try again. Excellent, just like that.”) Then he seemed to remember the others were still waiting and watching. Clearing his throat, he ordered them to pair up and practice, explaining that he’d be coming around to each pair to offer corrections where needed.

Murmurs of interest broke out, and the class began to shift and reform into pairs. For a moment, Hawkeye was certain that no one would want to be her partner; not after her little display. No one likes a teacher’s pet, after all—she’d already learned _that_ lesson the hard way. Just one more reason she wished she’d been enrolled in a regular school rather than home-schooled by her genius mad-scientist recluse of a father…there were so many unspoken _rules_ she’d simply never learned.

But then the dark-haired girl, the pretty one who’d whistled in admiration before, shoved her way through the others and nearly tackled Hawkeye, latching on to her free arm like a limpet. 

“Dibs on the prodigy!” she crowed triumphantly.

Only then did Hawkeye notice a series of disappointed faces around them—apparently, she _wasn’t_ the pariah she’d feared becoming. It was just that no one else had worked up the _guts_ to ask her to be their partner. She hid a shy smile as the other girl stuck her tongue out at a blond young man who seemed particularly put out.

“Rebecca Catalina,” the pretty brunette said cheerfully, giving Hawkeye’s arm an affectionate little squeeze before she let go.

“Ri-riza Hawkeye,” she stammered in reply, somewhat tongue-tied. Catalina just beamed at her. 

“Well, since you’ve had your turn, help a girl out and show me how to do this properly, won’t you?” she asked, taking the rifle from Hawkeye’s unresisting hands.

Standing behind Catalina, Hawkeye gently and patiently corrected her position, adjusting her arms, then her grip, and even nudging her feet slightly farther apart to give her better balance. Catalina shot her a sly look from underneath her long lashes.

“Where’d you learn to shoot like that, anyway?” she asked. 

“My father taught me, when I was a child,” Hawkeye answered carefully, as casually as she could. Catalina raised an eyebrow, but Hawkeye prevented further questioning with some quick pointers about proper aiming.

By the end of the class, Catalina’s nascent skills were showing significant improvement, and Hawkeye was growing accustomed to the other girl’s sassy sense of humor and lighthearted familiarity. 

Their instructor paused to murmur something in Hawkeye’s ear about meeting him after the last class of the day, to discuss training at the firing range with the more experienced group. Catalina looked on with great interest, but didn’t comment.

As they were dissembling and packing up their weapons, Catalina fixed Hawkeye with another of those appraising looks. Hawkeye rocked back on her heels and tried to stare her down. It was more difficult than she expected.

“You know, you’re awfully formal for a girl from the Eastern provinces,” Catalina said.

“Am I?” Hawkeye returned, easily.

“You’re also pretty damn smart,” she continued on as if Hawkeye hadn’t answered. “I mean, the way you talk to the instructors in class, it’s like you know a lot more than the rest of us do. Like you’ve had more than just the standard public school education. You’re not, like, some secret heiress or anything, are you?”

Technically, she was. (Which had surprised the hell out of her when she’d found out – where had her father hidden all that money when she was scrimping and saving just to make sure they could afford groceries?) But that was no one else’s business.

“You think I’d have joined the military if I were?” Hawkeye answered lightly. But Catalina was apparently smarter than she pretended to be.

“Heiresses can be patriots, too,” she returned, with a cheeky little wink. “But if you’re some sort of rich-girl runaway, you might not want to show off quite so much. Someone might notice.”

“Who says I’m running away from anything? And I’m not **_showing_** **_off_** ,” Riza replied quietly, rising to her feet and turning her back. 

“Hey, wait,” Catalina cried, jumping up to follow her. “It was only a joke! You know, you’re awfully serious. Loosen up a bit! Let your hair down! I mean, figuratively speaking, of course,” she added, with a wary glance at Hawkeye’s short blonde cut.

“I apologize if my _formality_ offends you,” Hawkeye said stiffly. “I was raised to address others with respect, regardless of rank, background or education. And I don’t see anything wrong with that policy. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Aw, don't be like that,” Catalina begged, as her pretty pout turned into a genuine frown. She seemed sincerely contrite. “Come on, now, I really didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry. Say, let me buy you a drink to make up for it, huh? We’re done for the day, anyway.”

Years later, Riza would wonder whether Rebecca had pushed at her deliberately that day just to have an excuse to ‘make up.’  It was the perfect opportunity to chat in private, after all. But in the moment, all she could think about was that going out for drinks was something that friends did together. And even though she meant nothing to this girl, and vice versa, she couldn’t find the will to refuse.

 

“Look, us girls have to stick together, you know?” Catalina chirped a few hours later, leaning one elbow on their table.

“If you say so,” Hawkeye replied, wondering exactly what Catalina was driving at. She’d been tiptoeing around the subject of women in the military for twenty minutes now. There was obviously something she wanted to say, but she seemed unable to just get to the point.  

“I mean, there aren’t very many of us in the armed forces, and some of these guys can be pretty pushy,” Catalina babbled. “It helps to have a girlfriend you can trust to watch your back, yeah?”

 _There it is_ , thought Hawkeye. With her drink frozen halfway between the table and her lips, she leaped at the opportunity to shock her companion into speaking some sense.

“Cadet Catalina, are you coming on to me?” she said dryly.

Catalina’s mouth dropped open in shock, just before she started giggling.

“Sweet baby Fuhrer, I did not expect you to have a sense of humor,” she managed to gasp out in between girlish chortles. “I’m really not into girls, honest. But if I were, I sure as hell wouldn’t kick you out of bed, sweet pea.” Riza smiled in shy amusement, and Catalina was stricken speechless once again. “And omigod, do NOT smile like that in here unless you want to be mauled!” she hissed, looking around. “You are way too damn cute for your own good, you know that?”

“You aren’t so bad yourself, Catalina,” Riza replied, calmly sipping her drink.

“Aw, you aren’t…you’re not, like, _upset_ , are ya?” Catalina asked anxiously. “I mean, you’re not—?” She waved her hand in some odd little gesture that did absolutely nothing to clarify what she wasn’t saying aloud, but Hawkeye wasn’t an idiot, and she snorted.

“No. I’m not attracted to women. I was just returning the compliment.” Catalina visibly relaxed.

“Okay, good. I was afraid I’d put my foot in it, for a second there. I do that a lot,” she said ruefully. “Although usually I’m busy offending some cute guy who’s trying to hit on me, rather than insulting someone I’m trying to make friends with.”

Riza blinked at her, bemused.

“You want to be friends?” she repeated, somewhat stupidly. She’d had this conversation once before, several years earlier, and the odd sense of déjà vu left her light-headed. Catalina just winked at her.

“Like I said, us girls have to look out for each other!” she repeated.

“We aren’t exactly the only two women in the academy, Catalina,” Hawkeye said suspiciously. Why would this funny, vivacious, popular girl want to make friends with _her_? What was the catch, here?

“Well of course we we’re not, but I don’t have anything in common with any of the others,” Catalina was agreeing, tossing her glossy black curls over one shoulder.

“You may have more in common with some of them than with a cold-hearted teacher’s pet from Hicksville,” Hawkeye interjected, a little bitterly. Oh, she knew what they said about her behind her back. Unfortunately for her self-esteem, she’d always had excellent hearing.

“I really don’t,” Catalina replied, suddenly serious. “All the other girls in our year avoid me like the plague. I’ve always gotten along better with the boys, you know? And some women really resent that; think I’m a threat or something.”

“Most of the other girls in our year are vain, selfish harpies who wouldn’t recognize a real threat if it had them cornered in a dark alley,” Hawkeye said. Catalina beamed at her again.  

“Well, in all fairness, a lot of the boys do just want to date me, so their jealousy isn’t completely unfounded. But anyway, since they all hate me, I don’t have any girlfriends! And a girl needs girlfriends, doesn’t she?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Hawkeye replied, more candid than she intended to be. “I’ve never really had a girlfriend.”

“What, never?” Catalina asked in surprise. Hawkeye shrugged nonchalantly.

“Small town, remember? Not a lot of kids in my peer group. I was closer to the women my mother’s age than with the girls in my own generation.”

“But what about here?”

“Weren’t you listening, Catalina?” Hawkeye retorted. “I answer a few questions correctly in class, and suddenly I’m the teacher’s pet. I’m too reserved in large groups for their personal taste, so that must mean I’m an uptight bitch. I was born and raised in a small town, so I’m the country bumpkin from Hicksville. Which of those qualifications makes you think I’m the belle of the ball?” Hawkeye paused to look down at her empty glass. “And apparently I can’t keep my mouth shut when I’ve been drinking, so now we also know that I can’t hold my liquor. Perfect,” she sighed. Rebecca giggled.

“You hold your liquor just fine. It just loosens your tongue a bit, which totally works in my favor.”

“Gee, thanks,” Hawkeye replied dryly. And then she shot Catalina a mischievous look. “Though you may want to rephrase that, unless you want me to get the wrong idea again.” Catalina looked startled for a second, and then burst out laughing.

“See, now that settles it!” she crowed. And then leaned in closer, with a determined expression. “I need a girlfriend, you need a girlfriend, and here we both are. Problem solved, yeah?”

“We barely know each other,” Hawkeye protested weakly. Catalina waved her hand dismissively.

“Ah, it’s all just details. I already know that you’re smart and funny, and a damn fine shot. And that you get chatty when you’ve had a few,” she smirked. “ _You_ already know that I’m an adorable and loveable tomboy, who joined the military primarily because it’s a target rich environment and I’d really like to find a decent man who’s willing to make an honest woman out of me.” Hawkeye snorted again.

“That’s really not much to go on, Catalina.”

“Oh for heaven’s sakes, call me Rebecca. I’ll start calling you Riza either way, so you may as well,” the other girl said, signaling the waitress for another round. “Besides, there’s no time like the present. I’ve got a little sister and a mom and dad back home. Dad’s a civil engineer and mom’s a housewife. What about you?”

“Only child. My mother died when I was little, and my father died last year,” Hawkeye answered. “I have no other relatives to speak of.” Which was still strictly true—she wouldn’t speak of her grandfather to anyone until and unless he acknowledged their relationship first.

“Hey, that’s rough, I’m sorry,” Rebecca said softly, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “That why you joined up, then?”

“More or less,” Riza said with a small, wry smile. Rebecca’s face lit up.

“Oh? There’s more to that story, I see. It wouldn’t happen to involve a boy, would it?” Riza flushed scarlet and didn’t speak. Rebecca gasped. “Omigod, does it? Come on, spill!”

“Sure, why the hell not?” she murmured, half to herself. It’s not like it would ever get back to him. “There was a boy, yes.”

“A boyfriend?” Rebecca asked breathlessly.

“Nothing like that,” Riza replied, her eyes softening. “He was my best friend, a lifetime ago. I admired his ideals and his integrity and resolve. He joined the army just before my father passed; said he wanted to devote his life to serving the people and making this country a better place. I thought it sounded like a nice dream.”

“So he convinced you to join up, too? With him?” Rebecca prompted.

“Not exactly,” Riza chuckled. “For one thing, I was still too young to enlist, then. And he wasn’t trying to recruit me; we were just talking about our future plans. But I never forgot the look in his eyes when he talked about building a beautiful future.”

“And then?”

“Well, then my father died. While I was deciding what I was going to do, my…an old friend of the family approached me, He offered me the chance to follow in my friend’s footsteps. And I took it.”

“Oh, that’s so romantic,” Rebecca sighed, her eyes sparkling. “I don’t care what you say about only being friends, sweetie, you’ve got it bad,” she added sagely. “It’s all over your face.”

“Maybe so,” Riza laughed a little. “But he and I? We’ll never be more than friends.”

“Aw, come on, why do you say that? Don’t give up before you’ve even given it a shot!”

“Who says I didn’t?” Riza asked, raising her eyebrow. Rebecca stared her down.

“Well? Did you?” she asked. Hawkeye sighed. And shook her head ever so slightly.

“I haven’t seen him in over a year, now,” she admitted softly, stirring the melted ice in the bottom of her glass idly. “We sort of drifted apart after he left. You know what I mean. He wrote at first, but…” she shrugged.  Rebecca made a sympathetic face.

“Yeah, that happens, I guess. Still, that’s pretty shitty,” she said. The two girls were quiet for a moment, during which the cocktail waitress finally arrived with fresh drinks.

“You sure you want to befriend such a hopeless case, Rebecca?” Riza finally said with a wry smile, reaching for her glass. Rebecca looked up at her in surprise.

“Hell yeah! Aside from being smart and sweet, you’re hot! And I could definitely use a hot wing-woman to help me catch a husband,” she grinned. “Plus, if you’re still hung up on Mr. Unrequited Love, then I don’t have to worry about you stealing the good ones away from me. I see no downside, here. ” Riza let out a startled huff of laughter.

“You’re serious?” she asked incredulously.

“Sure am! See, you just sit there and look pretty, and they’ll be falling all over themselves to get here and talk to you. Then, wham!” Rebecca cried, slamming her fist down on the table. “I’ll turn on the charm and reel them in.”

“So I’m supposed to be the bait in this little scenario?” Riza asked, still deeply amused. “If that’s the case, then you’re what, the hook?”

“Damn straight,” Rebecca affirmed, tossing her head. “They’ll never know what hit them.”

“Oh, they’ll know,” Riza said. “But not until it’s far too late.”

“I like the way you think,” Rebecca laughed. She raised her glass, indicating that Riza should follow suit. Clinking their glasses together, she grinned wickedly. “To the beginning of a beautiful friendship!”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally I intended this one to be an exploration of what Hawkeye's weapons were to her: a connection to her parents, a means of protection and self-defense, a career opportunity, a skill in common with someone who would later become her dearest friend. There were other (darker) themes that I never got around to, because the last chapter inspired Pistols, which took over my writing life for a good year or two in there. I may one day add to this, but for now I'm considering it complete.


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